


Smith and Anderson (Injured)

by AlbieGeorge



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: ARGH, Ali is pensive, All is normal, Established Relationship, Fluff, I'm so scared to post this, It's so very silly, Jimmy is grumpy, M/M, My first attempt at fanfic, Terrible suits, Until things get weird, Very soppy fluff at that, With an attempt at comedy thrown in, unexpressed feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 17:02:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12916317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlbieGeorge/pseuds/AlbieGeorge
Summary: Jimmy Anderson is having a great time annoying Steve Smith.  Until annoying Steve Smith becomes the only thing he's able to do for the rest of eternity.Set on and after the first day's play of the second 2017-18 Ashes test in Adelaide.Warning: Very silly.  Not deep.  Gets quite fluffy after a while.  I couldn't help myself.





	Smith and Anderson (Injured)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fruitloopy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fruitloopy/gifts).



> At the close of play on day 1 of the second Ashes test, I had a faintly delirious conversation with @fruitloopy-blog on Tumblr about Jimmy Anderson's tactic of annoying Steve Smith by standing next to him passive aggressively at the non-striker's end. This led to a ridiculous fic prompt of an AU in which Jimmy is the Hopkirk (Deceased) to Steve Smith's Randall. While I couldn't quite pull that off, I found aspects of the concept too much to resist, and this is what came out. It's more like Jimmy having an 'It's A Wonderful Life' moment, but it's nearly Christmas, so I hope you'll go with it.
> 
> This is my first attempt at writing, so I would love to hear your thoughts. Constructive criticism welcome - I'm aware that this is neither stylish, nor deep. Apologies if I've accidentally stolen any tropes or character points from the other fabulous cricketfam works on here. Accidental imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, you know.
> 
> More notes at the end. Rated M for the amount of swearing you would expect from a grumpy northerner and an Aussie.

Speaking as a senior player (the most senior, in the sense of senior citizen, as he was frequently reminded by Joe), openly baiting the Australian captain while the ink was still drying on his accusations of bullying was not the brightest idea.  Trouble was, out in the middle in the fading light at the Adelaide Oval, pink ball slamming into the deck again and again, the air practically crackling with tension, Jimmy Anderson was not speaking as a senior player.  He was speaking, or in this case, standing, as the seething ball of patriotic rage that he always turned into as he pulled on his whites and jogged out into the middle.

He stood just close enough to Steve Smith to make him squirm and tick and fidget that little bit more, turning his head to fix him with a look that was unreadable, but had shifting moments of pride and fury and schoolboyish mischief.  Smith snarled almost imperceptibly, given away only by the slight movement of the lips, the jaw clenched beneath them, beady eyes fixed on Jimmy's.  Jimmy felt the warm tingly whoosh of exhilaration sweep through him.  Getting a rise out of the enemy was almost as good as taking a wicket.  As Aleem Dar wandered over and fussed, Jimmy looked over at Ali in the slips.  He was biting his bottom lip, in a way that was not meant to be sexy but made the exhilaration whoosh settle somewhere that shouldn't be in play right now.  He caught Ali's eye and read his expression immediately.  Amused.  Trying not to show it.

_You don't have to be the captain any more, Ali.  Relax._

Jimmy turned his gaze to Joe, who was chuckling behind his hand in that way that he did, eyes dancing with mirth.  Stuart was at the top of his run up.  Time for another ball.

\---

Back at the hotel, Jimmy lay on his back and groaned.  It was a general, all purpose, grumpy Jimmy Anderson groan.  A groan of chances missed with the ball (that awful wide one with the new ball in the final over - what a waste!) and the cheesy, carby monstrosity he'd been told to eat sitting heavily on his stomach.

"What are you grumbling about?" said the owner of the mop of glossy black hair that had settled on his left shoulder.  The mop shifted to reveal a sleepy pair of eyes, kind but mocking.  Ali idly drew shapes with his fingertips over the smooth skin of Jimmy's belly.

"Indigestion?"

_This man was clearly a mind reader.  An alien sent down to investigate the human race that had got distracted by batting and a grumpy Lancastrian._

Jimmy grunted.

"I can hear your stomach gurgling from here."

_Oh.  There's always a rational explanation_.

Ali looked like he was taking tiny naps every time he blinked, eyes refocusing slightly every time he opened them.  He smiled sleepily at Jimmy, the movement of his mouth causing a gently pleasurable friction of stubble against shoulder.  Jimmy suddenly felt tired, more content, despite the grumbly belly and the unsatisfactory scorecard.  How did Ali manage to do that with just a half smile and a flutter of the eyelashes?  Maybe he was an alien after all.  Or maybe Jimmy was softer in the heart than his well-practised regimen of grumpiness would allow him to admit.  That was it.  Another rational explanation, though he squashed down the notion of thinking about or defining his feelings by reaching out and switching off the light.  As he settled down in the sudden blackness of the hotel room, he concentrated on the heavy, reassuring weight of Ali's body against his, and for the first time that day, allowed himself to breathe all the way out.

\---

On any other day, Jimmy would have wandered into consciousness slowly, chuntering unsociably at the dawn, wincing a little from the previous day's exertions.  But today he was plunged into wakefulness suddenly -  a pop of white light like a flash bulb going off too close to your face as you arrived at another godforsaken Australian airport.  How he had ended up in the communal lounge of the suite he shared with Ali was anyone's guess.

_Must've been chased out by his snoring._

Jimmy allowed himself an indulgent smile as he thought of the snuffling little snores of his lover.  Almost involuntarily, he stretched his arms above his head, waiting for the familiar twinges and niggles of day two of a test.  Instead, the extension of his arms was met with the tight restriction of a suit jacket.

_What the..._

Jimmy looked down at his arms to find them covered by the smooth, pure white fabric of an expensive-looking jacket, the sleeves of a crisp white shirt poking out from the cuffs.  He stood and walked briskly to the full-length mirror by the door.  He couldn't tell if he was more surprised or horrified to find that he was wearing top-to-toe white business wear.  A white suit, white shirt, white tie, even white shoes - an unmitigated fashion disaster.  Maybe he was still asleep.  There was no way that he would have donned this outfit in any state of consciousness.  Jimmy seized the skin of his left wrist between right thumb and forefinger and pinched hard.

"Ouch!"

His exclamation punctured the silence.  He let the quiet settle about the room again, then looked back into the mirror.  He still stared dumbly back at himself, the only colour added to his figure the angry line of skin he had pinched, its throbbing almost audible in the early morning quiet.

A noise from inside his bedroom startled him away from the mirror.  He thought they'd slept in Ali's room last night.  Oh well, no matter.  The familiar sound of a phone alarm quickly silenced,  a shuffling of bedclothes, feet hitting floor, told Jimmy that Ali was up.  A farmer always gets up as soon as his alarm goes off.  The cows won't milk themselves, or whatever.  Feet padded towards the door.  Jimmy suddenly felt the need to hide.  He was wearing a white suit, for God's sake, and he couldn't explain why.  He dived behind an oversized sofa, the stiff material of new suit trousers chomping at his knees as he crouched.  The feet, accompanied by tuneful whistling, wandered over to the kitchenette and flicked a switch that set the coffee machine spluttering into life.

_Wait.  Whistling?  Ali doesn't whistle._

Jimmy's head popped up over the back of the sofa like a meerkat who's seen a hyena on a far hilltop.  The hyena was not a hyena.  And he was not Alastair Cook.  The hyena was Chris Woakes.

_The amiable motherfucker is in my hotel room, cool as a cucumber, making coffee and fucking whistling._

Before he knew what was happening, and with no regard for being seen, Jimmy stood and strode furiously into his bedroom, hot pangs of jealousy in his fists and behind his eyes, quite prepared to drag Ali out of bed by the boxer briefs and interrogate him.  Except Ali wasn't in his bed.  And his bed wasn't his bed.  Pictures of a family that wasn't his.  More bats than he even owned.  An Aston Villa calendar hung haphazardly off one of the picture frames.  Despite everything that was happening, Jimmy had to resist the temptation to turn the page from November to December.  How had he ended up in Woakesy's suite?  He felt a stab of guilt for calling Chris a motherfucker, and a stronger wave of relief that he wouldn't have to kill him for sleeping with his guy.  Convinced he'd been seen in his white-suited rage, Jimmy headed back to the kitchenette to attempt to explain.  Chris, apparently unperturbed, was stirring milk into two cups of coffee.  A further pang of guilt reminded him that his teammate had made him a coffee while he was thinking about throwing him over the balcony.

_Classic Woakes.  Amiable motherfucker._

"Morning, mate." Jimmy offered lamely.

Chris didn't look up.  Instead, he picked up one of the coffees and walked towards Jimmy.  Jimmy extended a hand to take the drink at which point Chris Woakes walked right through him.  As simple as that.  One moment he was in front of him, the next he was the behind him.  Walking to the door of the other room in the suite.  A polite knock.

"Ali?  You awake, mate?  I've made you a coffee."

A brief pause.  The door opened.  Alastair Cook, all bedhead and early morning platonic small talk, took the coffee and started talking about the prospect of getting started on the second test.  He paid no heed to the slack-jawed, white suited man in the room.

_Getting started?  But it's day 2.  And how is Ali sharing with Chris?  And, more to the point, how the fucking fuck has Woakes just walked entirely through my body?_

Panic grasped at Jimmy's gut.  Head spinning and bile rising, he rushed past Ali and Chris to the balcony to get some air.  In his haste, a flailing arm went straight through Alastair's side.  Gasping and gripping on to the rail for dear life, Jimmy looked out at the Adelaide Oval, which was reassuringly still there.  Inside the hotel room, Chris Woakes sipped thoughtfully at his coffee and Alastair Cook sneezed.

\---

Jimmy spent the remainder of the morning yelling in his teammates' faces.  Yelling for a rational explanation.  There was always a rational explanation, and he was the tetchy, white-suited detective that was going to find it.  He yelled at Jonny Bairstow, who continued to drink coffee and read an article about England's chances in the second test with their key batsmen out of form and their talisman opening bowler laid up at home with a side strain.  Once he realised that Jonny definitely couldn't hear him, he continued to yell at the fact that he was apparently also now injured, those bastard intercostals must have played up again despite all of the stupid, awkward stretches he put himself through every day.  He then yelled at himself for being annoyed by an injury when he was facing the slightly bigger problem of being invisible.  At least no-one could see how terrible his suit was.

He then moved on to yelling at Joe, first trying to distract him from a hushed conversation with Trevor about tactics, and then, more despairingly, trying to influence his aim when he started idly flicking bits of rolled up paper into Gary Ballance's hair to take his mind off the impending day.  By the time he found Moeen, having walked over the bridge yelling generally at cricketers and punters alike, he was so exhausted from the yelling that he didn't bother, slumping down next to his wise, bearded friend and putting his head in his hands.  Who could yell at Moeen Ali, anyway?  Mo reached into his kit bag, a slender arm bisecting Jimmy's neck like a thicker version of the bolt through the neck of Frankenstein's monster.

"Fuck's sake, Moeen."  Jimmy muttered, and got up.

He walked out of the dressing room, no longer avoiding his teammates, aiming a futile swat at the back of Stu's head as he ducked slightly to fuss with his hair in a mirror.  He was angry at Stuart for not seeing him - he figured if Ali couldn't see him, his old faithful opening partner would be able to.  But no, Stu had just bounded through him to get to Jake Ball, still going on about that streaky hattrick he'd scored in the football the day before.

Jimmy walked down the corridors of the Adelaide Oval as if the white-walled corridors might somehow lead him to an answer to this whole sorry affair, pausing only when he realised he was lost.

"What the absolute fuck is that suit?"

When the voice came, he froze.  His whole body was suddenly cold, every nerve jangling.  He spun around on the white heel of his white brogue.  ( _Where the hell do you even get white brogues anyway?_ )  He couldn't see where the voice was coming from.  Unmistakably Australian.  Cocky as fuck.  Smith.  He peered through a doorway.  Steve Smith, fresh from a pre-match interview.  Leaning on a wall looking as punchable as a human could look.

"You can see me?!" The words were out before he had time to think about them, or to lower their pitch by about two octaves.

Smith arched an eyebrow.  "I mean, you are nearly blending into the wall there, Hopkirk, but yeah, I reckon you'd glow in the dark in that suit, so you're hard to miss."

He started walking towards the Aussie dressing room, laughing openly at Jimmy as he passed him.  Surprise was bowled over by a hot wave of rage and Jimmy stalked behind him.

"Why the hell it would be you of all people, I don't know, but you're the only person who can see me right now."

Jimmy paused at the ridiculousness of this statement.  Steve turned into the empty dressing room.  In the distance, far down the corridor, the rest of the Australia team were starting to filter in.  Smith plopped down in front of his locker and fixed Jimmy with a hard stare.

"Mate, have you had a bump on the head?" He grinned mischievously.  "Did Jonny Bairstow get to you, too?"

Jimmy ignored the dig and sat down next to Steve, desperation rising in his voice.  Players started to wander in, depositing kit bags and greetings to their skipper.

"You don't understand, Steve!", then more quietly, "I think I'm a ghost."

"Get out of our dressing room!"

"Mate, enough selection jokes already!" exclaimed Tim Paine, as he slumped down next to Smith and grinned.  Steve would have returned the grin, if only in relief that he hadn't been caught talking to himself, but the realisation that he was having a Jimmy Anderson hallucination hit him right in the balls as Jimmy's head, eyebrows raised to underline his point, poked out of Tim's shoulder like some grotesque two-headed monster.

\---

"I'm not going anywhere."  Jimmy stood, his white suit unblemished by grass stains, hands in pockets, next to Steve Smith at the non-striker's end.

"I'm BATTING."  Smith hissed under his breath, raising only a faintly quizzical look from Aleem Dar as Stuart Broad began his run up towards Peter Handscomb.

"Is that what you call that technique?"  Jimmy retorted.  If he was going to be a ghost, he may as well irritate the Aussies for a bit.

"Fuck. Off."  The words tailed away as Handscomb called for a single and Smith set off.  Jimmy followed at an amble, deliberately covering the bits of track that Steve was trying to garden with his foot.

"This is..." Fidget.  Twitch.  "This is cheating!"

"You want to go and explain to uncle Aleem that the naughty English lads have sent a bowler in ghost form to irritate their captain?"

Smith narrowed his eyes.  "The ghost of fast bowlers past."

_Ouch._   He supposed he deserved that.

Smith was out soon after, a nice looking ball from Craig Overton clattering middle and off as Jimmy was mid way through a meandering anecdote about the time Graeme Swann had locked James Taylor in his own locker on the second day of a county match.

"It's all about concentration, is batting."  Jimmy offered, arms folded across his chest as Smith stared at the mess that was left of his stumps.

"I hate you."  Smith said matter-of-factly as he trudged off.

Jimmy walked with him about half way, and then turned back towards the middle.  Even Steve Smith deserved some privacy after he'd just been clean bowled.  He awkwardly positioned himself among the slips, where he had spent many an hour talking bollocks and occasionally catching stuff with Joe and Jonny and Ali (his heart twinged a little at the proximity of the latter).  Despite the wicket, the mood was quiet-ish.  The day wasn't lost, but it wasn't going swimmingly either.  Jonny gathered a pleasant but not very threatening ball and suddenly flicked it as hard as he could at Ali.  He caught it easily, throwing it onward on its way back to the bowler.  Ali frowned.

"This game's more fun with Jimmy."

Joe nodded. "Yeah, he gets all stroppy when he forgets we're playing and the ball nearly goes up his nose."

Ali smiled.  The first smile he'd seen all day from that face.  Jimmy went and stood in front of him and stared hard and meaningfully into his eyes.  Eyes that weren't focused on him, but that he saw the smile drop from.

"I'm here, Ali." he said hopelessly.

Ali's face contorted.

_Oh my God, he's heard me_.  "Ali?  ALI!"

And then it happened.  Alastair took a deep breath and sneezed emphatically.

"Bless you." said four or five voices in unison, one of them unheard by all of the others.

"You going down with something, Cooky?"  Jonny asked, peering at the taller man from under his cap.

"Nah, don't think so." Ali replied.  "It's weird though.  A couple of times today, I've felt really strange.  You know, suddenly awfully sad.  And then I sneeze and it's gone as quick as it came."

Jonny nodded sagely.  "Gloomy hayfever.  Common that."

Joe guffawed and Ali grinned.

"That's it, Ali, sneeze away your worries." Joe offered and Ali laughed, but Jimmy could see there was still a hint of sadness in his face.  He wanted to reach out and put his hands around it, but he knew that he'd end up just grasping at thin air.

How long had it been in this ridiculous world since he'd spoken to Ali?  Knowing his injured self, missing an Ashes tour no less, it was probably ages.  And if they had spoken, it would have been tense and halting.  Jimmy would barely have tried to hide the jealously in his voice, and Alastair would have been all awkward silences and umms and ahhs.  Polite, middle class ticks of the ill at ease.

_God, I'm an absolute shit._ Jimmy thought.

"Over."  called the umpire's voice.

_Are you talking about my life, ump?  Or just my relationship?_

Jimmy afforded himself a thorough wallow in his own misery.  He could do with a cleansing bout of gloomy hayfever right now.

The slip cordon ambled off to the other end.  Jimmy stayed, glued in place by needing to say sorry for something he thought he might have done in the new reality he found himself in, but realising that he might never get to say it because he was a fucking ghost that only Steve fucking Smith could see.  This was not a set of problems he was well-equipped to deal with.

As he started a self-indulgent trudge towards the boundary, he paused in front of Alastair again, this time taking a deep breath and stepping into the space he was occupying, longing to feel something.  Anything.  He felt sad, but he wasn't sure if it was his sadness or Alastair's.  He carried on walking.  As he walked away, he heard another hearty sneeze, and Joe's voice say,

"You know it only takes 8 sneezes to make an orgasm.  That's a good cure for sadness, too!"

Jimmy smiled despite himself, and spent the next 20 minutes perched on the hoardings telling Stuart Broad his worries while he fielded on the boundary.  At one particularly bleak point, he looked up almost tearily, hoping to see Stu looking sympathetically at him.  He was greeted with the blank expanse of Stu's back, as he ignored another filthy song from the Richies and adjusted a wedgie that was threatening his bum.  Jimmy felt a vague pang of jealously that even Stuart Broad's underpants were getting more attention than he was today.

\---

Jimmy had lost track of how long he had been trying to convince Chris Woakes to stop playing Football Manager and let him in to Ali's room.  By the time he'd made it back to the hotel, Ali was already ensconced in his bedroom with the door shut.  Jimmy had decided that not being able to walk through walls - surely one of the main advantages of being a ghost - was pretty shitty.  He fancied that he was just getting to the point of subliminal suggestion - Woakes was fidgeting uneasily - when Ali popped his head round the door to ask Chris to turn the air con down, and Jimmy made a running dive for it.

Congratulating himself heartily, Jimmy wondered how long it would take for him to figure out a way to communicate with the lads in a Steve Smith-free fashion - he'd made Woakes fidget, after all - that was a breakthrough.  Moments later he heard the loo flush in the adjoining bathroom, and came down to earth with a bump when he concluded that those had been the fidgets of a man who needed a wee.

Ali was lying on the bed, on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling.  Jimmy stood back and admired the man in a way he would never normally allow himself to do.  Tracing every contour, desperate to touch the rough stubble at his jawline, the soft mess of dark hair on his head, the warm smooth skin of his chest, his back, his... Jimmy found to his mild disdain that even in ghost form, his libido was as strong as ever.  The libido that had seen him start a long, meandering and poorly discussed relationship with his teammate.

Now that he would never be able to have that discussion he longed for it.  Unless he had it through the (literal) medium of Steve Smith.  The thought of it make him laugh out loud.  An involuntary, harsh stab of a laugh at the multilayered and terrifying awkwardness of that concept.  He lay down on the bed next to Ali, trying to find the same spot on the ceiling to stare at.  There was no rational explanation for this one.  Time to let it all out, into the void.

"Ali, I've massively fucked it all up.  I'm sorry."

Ali sneezed.  Twice.  The kid of hard, violent sneezes that make you gasp for breath.  Jimmy looked at him, frowning, dots laboriously connecting in his tired mind.

"Am I... am I making you sneeze, Alastair Cook?"

_Fuck's sake, I can never touch your beautiful face again, but I can turn you into one of the Seven Dwarves?  Great.  I am the physical embodiment of gloomy hayfever.  I'll just be here, then.  Looking at you.  Trying to tell you how I feel.  Think of me when you fucking sneeze._

Jimmy rolled onto his back and sulked.

In time, Alastair reached over to the bedside table for a tissue, leaning into Jimmy's body.  He paused, hand hovering over his phone.  He sneezed again.

_Bless you._   Jimmy thought, eyes closed, calling out to Alastair in his head.

_Bless you.  I miss you.  I love you.  Just don't fucking_ \- "ATCHOO!" - _sneeze._

_Sneeze if you love me, Alastair.  Go on, I dare you._

"ATCHOO!"

_I'll take that._

When he opened his eyes, Ali was peering at his phone, thumb hovering over the little green telephone on the screen.  Behind it, a photo of his own face, pouting, middle finger raised towards the camera, his name in neat white letters across the screen.  Alastair was hesitating.

"Go on, ring me!"  Jimmy exclaimed, reaching for his own phone to find his white pockets empty.  "Except, I don't know where my phone is, or where I am.  Or really if I still exist at all."

Jimmy froze, waiting.  Thinking about the enormity of what he had just said, and before that what he had just thought.  Alastair frowned, and then the shockwave of another sneeze forced his thumb onto the screen.  A moment of silence.  A quiet curse under the breath of a man who wasn't quite ready for this conversation.  The muffled sound of a ringing phone, far away.

And then, a very distant but familiar voice:

"Hello?"

Suddenly everything was dark, but other than that the universe was an explosion of sensations.  Expensive hotel sheets on his skin, the chill of air con against his sweat-soaked forehead, the warm fuggy smell of men sleeping.  He took a few steadying breaths and slowly became aware of the figure hovering over him, propped up on one arm.

"Hello?" he ventured, weakly.

"Hello."  The voice was kind.  Concerned.  Relieved.  Ali.  He reached out, desperate to make contact, desperate for his hand not to pass straight through Ali's face.  Desperate for his lover not to sneeze.

Fingers met stubble then strong jaw then back of the neck as Jimmy gratefully pulled Ali down into his arms and held on tight.

"Are you OK?"  Ali asked, muffled by Jimmy's shoulder.  "You've been writhing about and mumbling some really strange things.  Are you ill?  Do I need to call the doctor?"

He was looking at Jimmy now.  Jimmy could feel those warm brown eyes on him even though his own hadn't quite adjusted to the darkness.

"No."  Jimmy wondered if he'd be sectioned if he tried to explain what had just happened to the team doctor.  "No.  Just... just a really weird dream.  A really bad dream."

Jimmy frowned into the darkness, feeling queasy but brave.

"Ali, I feel like I need to tell you some stuff.  Proper stuff."

Ali reached up and stroked Jimmy's sweat-streaked hair.

"Tomorrow, huh?  Late start in a day-night, even with that rain delay.  We'll make coffee.  And sit on the balcony.  And talk.  How's that?"

His voice was comforting, sincere.

"OK,"  Jimmy replied, suddenly feeling utterly exhausted.

He hoped he wouldn't have clammed up again by then.  Knowing him, he would go back to being the surly Northern lump that he was, grumbling into his coffee and not really saying anything at all.  But expressing the need to express something was... something.  Right?

As he drifted into a calm, and this time dreamless sleep, he thought he heard Ali say one more thing.

"Or maybe you can just sneeze if you love me."

Now or never.

"Atchoo." he muttered.

"Atchoo to you too."

**Author's Note:**

> A few final bits and bobs:
> 
> 1) The awful wide delivery in the final over with the new ball that Jimmy's lamenting is canon. What a stinker!  
> 2) I really have no idea who Ali would room with if Jimmy was injured - I went with Woakes because a) I enjoyed the opportunity for him to be a persistently amiable counterpoint to Jimmy's grumpy thoughts, b) He is not an entirely unfeasible choice (I'm thinking of that *really* tight hug in the Pakistan series of 2016), and c) He's my fave.  
> 3) Apologies if my characterisation of Steve Smith is poorly observed. Most of my experience of him is him teasing the England team fairly relentlessly, so I went with that.  
> 4) A mention of The Slips Game, a semi-regular feature of England test matches. I may not have got the intricacies of The Slips Game entirely correct - apologies if not.  
> 5) I have no idea where the sneezing thing came from. I think I initially just wanted Joe to make the orgasm joke, and I ran with it. Gloomy hayfever, indeed.  
> 6) This is so silly, and I'm so sorry.


End file.
